The Dragon Medley
by Fluid Consciousness
Summary: A collection of one-shots exploring themes that may or may not appear in everyone's favourite game. Chapter 7 - Forgiveness: F!Mahariel and Alistair.
1. Regret

**Disclaimer: **EA and Bioware own DA. I own a green jacket.

**A/N: **As explained in the summary, this will be a collection of themes that may or may not be present in DA or DA:A. Readers are welcome (and encouraged) to PM me and offer their own ideas for the collection, as well as cite which characters they'd like included. The following one-shot was inspired by the amazingly awesome Natmonkey. Shifts in verb tense is entirely intentional.

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**Regret**

He tries not to think about her, but after so many years with her by his side, life without her seems…strange. In the beginning she was proud to call him her husband, and he had always looked forward to coming home every night to see her smiling face shining up at him.

He remembers the exact moment that everything changed.

She had just invented the smokeless fuel that elevated her to the status of Paragon. He couldn't believe that he, a simple dwarf from the warrior caste, was married to a Paragon. The thought of it was enough to make him laugh in exultation and cry with pride. It wasn't until the celebratory feast that he'd discovered the down side to being a legend's husband. The purveyor had been some drunken nobody that had crashed the festivities.

"Must be tough having someone like _her _as a wife," the duster had said.

"What the sod are you babbling about?"

The drunken duster had shrugged a shoulder, the action causing ale to spill over the sides of his tankard. "Just sayin' I wouldn't want to have _my_ wife wear the pants. Face it, no one'll ever remember you for being a 'great warrior'. They'll remember you as the husband of a Paragon."

The truth of it hit him like a ton of bricks. All of the Provings, all of the bloodshed and broken bones, all of it was for nothing. In the end, no one would see it. When they looked at him, all they'd see is the woman by his side. Suddenly he wasn't so proud of his wife. Suddenly that cask of ale looked much more welcoming than it had just minutes before.

Why hadn't anyone warned him that drowning your problems can be both liberating and devastating at the same time?

It wasn't long before she stopped coming to his bed at night. In another life, another time, that fact might have bothered him. In this life he barely batted an eye. It was so much easier to have another drink and not think about it. He started to spend entire nights at Tapster's, not even bothering to show his face at home. He had a feeling she was spending her nights elsewhere as well. The occasional time he _did _bump into her, she was with that rug-munching poet. Based on the looks and snickers that passed through the bar, the two of them were more than just _friends_.

When he returned home one day in the wee hours of the morning to find his entire House missing, he didn't give it much thought. He was too sodding wasted to care. He just rolled into bed and snored himself into oblivion. When they didn't return after a few days, he asked around. What he heard didn't make him happy.

The crazy broad had gone into the Deep Roads and convinced every member of their House to go with her. Everyone but him. He should've known something like this would eventually happen, but had to admit it still came as a blow to the old ego. Instead of pursuing her, he had another drink.

Days turned into months, and months into years. He spent his time marinated in ale and spirits. Nothing mattered. When he walked through the Commons, people gave him a wide berth. He was a pariah, a drunk that was good for nothing but swilling beer and crushing skulls. The odd time that he managed to dry out he'd tried to convince the guards to let him into the Deeps, but no one listened. No one ever listened to him.

Until _she_ came along.

When she first walked into Tapster's, asking around about Branka, he'd written her off as one of Harrowmont's flunkies. In fact, she looked pretty sodding ridiculous in Orzammar, all sharp angles, pointy ears and silly armour. And what was with the crap on her face? Were swirly designs the new height of fashion on the surface? Rumours about her whirled around the bar with a frenzy. He later found out that she was one of the legendary Grey Wardens and she was on a mission to find Branka. Joining her was his only option. What he hadn't counted on was how much he'd like the Stone-forsaken elf. She was a monster in battle, her lithe body granting her swift and graceful movements. She used it to her advantage, of course, and sliced into darkspawn with a ferocity he'd never seen before. Even the humans she travelled with (especially the other Warden) were in awe of her.

And she'd been genuinely regretful when the time came to butcher Branka.

He understood that she'd had no choice. His wife had turned into a lunatic over the two years she'd been buried in the Deep Roads. The Warden told him she couldn't in good conscience allow Branka to take possession of the Anvil. So they killed a Paragon. His wife. Branka.

Now he sways dangerously close to the fire, the drink dulling his senses. He knows he'll be passing out again tonight. He does almost every night. It's the only way to quiet her voice in his head. He's been travelling with the Warden on the surface for a few weeks now. She'd welcomed him into her party with open arms. He likes to think she took a shine to him. Having someone like her as an ally isn't something he'll sneeze at. He's not surprised when he sees her approaching him, eyes wide and worried.

"How are you feeling, _lethallin_?" she asks.

He shrugs a shoulder, eyes bleary, unfocused. "Fine I guess. Trying not to think."

She sighs and rests a hand on his shoulder. "I know you are in pain. _Abelas_, Oghren. I wish I could have saved her."

He secretly enjoys the sprinkling of Elvish in her speech, and he suspects she knows this and goes out of her way to use as much as possible. It's the little things like this that make him cherish her company - though he wouldn't admit such a thing out loud.

"Don't worry about it, Warden. I know you did whatcha had to do. I only wish I'd been able to get to her sooner. Maybe I woulda been able to stop her from killing our entire House and turning into a drooling nug-humper."

"Perhaps. But the world is filled with 'could haves' and 'would haves'. Neither one helps us along our paths. Think instead of 'wills' and 'cans'." The Warden seems to like offering him little gems of wisdom like this. Unfortunately it doesn't go far in the way of helping him forget about where he went wrong. He's about to tell her as much when he's interrupted.

"Lyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyna! Your dog bit me again!"

She rolls her eyes playfully and turns her head toward the pike-twirler. "Did you try and take some of his food again?"

Silence, then an eventual "Noooo…." from the other Warden.

The elf laughs and shakes her head. "I'll be right there, _emma sa'lath_." She turns her attention back to the dwarf. "If there's anything I can do, just let me know."

He thinks about this a moment, then says hesitantly, "well, there is _one_ thing…"

She cocks her head to one side. "Oh?"

"Well, there's this girl I used to know in Orzammar, and she came to the surface not too long ago," he replies.

The Warden seems amused by this. "A girl you knew, or a girl you _knew_?"

"What? Oh, you mean did I sleep with her? Yeah, I did."

She laughs. "Oghren, you dog! I'm guessing you want to find her?"

"Well, I was sorta hoping we might be able to, yeah…"

She shrugs a shoulder and fixes him with one of her brilliant smiles. "Sure, why not. Any idea where she's at?"

His eyes narrow as he tries hard to remember the last time he'd heard about her. "I'm pretty sure I heard she's near some lake. Lake Cleanbad or something like that."

"I think I know where you're talking about. We have to head that way on our way back to the Circle of Magi. Wynne and Morrigan need some supplies. If I'm right she's probably working or staying at the Spoiled Princess."

"Thanks, Warden. I appreciate it," he says.

"No problem," she replies. She turns and heads for the pike-twirler, who apparently made up with the dog since the pair of them are busy playing fetch. He's not sure which of the two is doing the actual fetching considering how the dog has the human running around in circles trying to retrieve the stick from the former's mouth.

He reaches to his belt and takes a long pull from the flagon that the Warden had given him a few days previous. The spirits warm his insides and bestow a feeling of wellness. In these days of Blight and strife, the booze is the one thing in his life he knows he can always rely on. It will never make him feel like less of a man. It will never shout obscenities at him or throw red hot tongs at his head.

Most importantly, the booze will never leave him for another woman.


	2. Opposites Attract

**Disclaimer: **EA and Bioware own DA. I own a new cell phone!

**A/N: **Readers are welcomed (and encouraged) to offer their own theme ideas for the collection, as well as cite which character(s) they want involved.

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**Opposites Attract**

He stood at the edge of the docks, stock still and always at the ready. His eyes were closed and his full lips moved in silent prayer. She had moved within thirty paces of him when his eyes snapped open, pinning her in place. She wasn't sure, but she thought she detected a hint of satisfaction in those violet eyes. She hefted her pack over her shoulder and continued on toward him, dark hair flouncing at her back. She stood toe to toe with him, craning her neck to meet his gaze.

"Kadan," he inclined his head.

She returned the motion, causing her gold rimmed spectacles to slide down her nose. She pushed them up the bridge, a habit she'd fallen victim to of late. When Wynne had discovered that the Warden had poor vision, she'd insisted that the young woman visit a renowned glass smith in Amaranthine. The smith had fashioned a pair of spectacles, or glasses, after determining that she had difficulties seeing objects that were far away. Sadly, the blasted things were constantly slipping down and out of place.

Sten reached down without speaking and took the pack from her shoulders, carrying the weight himself. "You travel light, _kadan_. That is…unexpected."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I want no memories of this place. My life as Cadence Amell is finished. She is dead."

"Then you will need a new name," Sten replied.

She turned away from him, her gaze suddenly focused on the water. The breeze from the sea whipped her ebony hair about her face, and Sten watched as the lightly kinked strands caressed her cheeks. "You pick. I think you may know me better than anyone," her voice was barely above a whisper, though it carried on the wind.

"Özlem," he immediately responded.

She turned back to face him, her eyebrows raised. "Does it have any meaning?"

"The meaning is unimportant. It suits you, that is enough. When in public, however, it will be shortened to Öz."

Özlem shrugged a shoulder. "Alright then. Shall we board the ship?"

Sten nodded and they made their way to the part of the ship that was reserved for guests. After learning that they'd be sharing one of the more luxurious rooms, Öz scowled. "No matter where I turn, people are giving me special treatment. It's so unnecessary. I wasn't the only one involved in saving the land from total devastation."

"You are simply the face they are using to illustrate their victory over the Blight. Since you were the one to slay the archdemon, you would be their obvious choice for reverence," Sten replied while unpacking his belongings and neatly folding and hanging them into their shared wardrobe. Öz groaned and flopped onto the cot opposite Sten's, the thin mattress doing little to cushion her posterior. The weathered wood creaked under her weight. "Hardly reassuring," she mumbled under her breath.

"We have slept in worse conditions," Sten retorted stoically.

Öz snorted. "True enough. Remember when we all had to share a tent in the Frostbacks?"

The qunari gave a brief shudder. "I would prefer to forget the entire incident. I still bear a scar from where the bastard prince prodded me with that ridiculous dragon figurine. I do not understand why he insisted on sleeping next to it, especially when there was the danger that one of us would roll onto the razor sharp tail."

The Warden's wide mouth tugged up into a smile as she recalled the incident with absolute clarity. "You screamed like a little girl."

"No, I did not."

"Yes you did!" she teased.

Sten made a low, menacing growl, intending to silence the young woman draped against the mattress across from him. Instead, she only laughed harder. "And then you threatened to shove it up Alistair's…" her laughter died off, as though speaking his name had elicited the multitude of memories associated with the young king. "He wanted me to take up a position as Ferelden's Warden-Commander. Did I tell you that?"

"No."

Öz sighed. "It may be cowardly of me, it's just…I wouldn't want to have to deal with him politically or otherwise after everything that happened…" She glanced up at Sten, and he could tell that she was fighting to reign in her emotions. "Besides, after everything you told me about your homeland, I wanted to see it for myself. Though I hope they don't cut out my tongue." She let out a wry chuckle, "though I'm sure some would be glad for that to happen. I certainly like to run my mouth when I really oughtn't."

Sten was somewhat preoccupied while rummaging through his pack, his back facing her. "It has other uses I'm sure, and for that reason there are those of us that would find it quite unfortunate were it to be removed." He froze in place, acutely aware of his slip. He slowly turned to look over a well-muscled shoulder and was not in the least bit surprised to find the Warden gaping at him. "I apologize, _kadan_. My remark was inappropriate."

She shook her head, and for the first time since the Landsmeet, her large brown eyes sparkled playfully. "No, not inappropriate. Just unexpected."

His gaze shifted and he indicated her cot with an incline of his chin. "You should rest. The trip will be a long one."

Öz nodded and pulled the cotton sheets over her body. She hadn't packed an extra blanket and simply assumed that the ship would provide all the necessary linens. She would just have to hope that the night air wouldn't get too chilly.

**..::..::..::..::..**

Sten lay on his cot while staring at the planked ceiling. Since his frame was entirely too large for the tiny bed, he was finding it incredibly difficult to sleep. His head rested against his thick forearms, and he ran through his conversation with the Warden over and over again. He could not believe he'd shown such a lack of discipline in her presence. The qunari, especially the males, never let it be known that they were interested or attracted to a female unless they were certain that the female returned their interest. Typically, the females were the ones to send out a signal letting the male know that she was open for pursuit. For him to make such a comment…He gritted his teeth together. Nothing was ever simple with her. She was so different from the qunari females, and yet at the same time she was completely different from the females of her own species. It was as though she was a breed unto herself. His physical attraction to her had been immediate, though he never would have admitted it. She had the physique most males of his people sought out: ample hips and thighs that indicated a hearty predisposition for breeding. He knew that she was self conscious of this fact, and often hid this large portion of her frame in flowing mage robes, but no manner of clothing could hide what lay beneath. She could never hide from him. While her lower half was suitably sized, her upper half was surprisingly petite. Her breasts were smaller in comparison to the rest of her body, but they were still very appealing, at least in his opinion. Her shoulders were also slight, and she had a long, slender neck. This was perhaps his second favourite feature of hers (a close second to her rump). He thought it was perhaps due to the fact that he so seldom caught a glimpse of that expanse of mocha coloured skin. She often left her hair down, except for when she returned from her nightly ablutions. Only then was he able to gaze upon the most delicate part of her. A sudden chattering caught his attention. He raised his head and spared a glance at the Warden's sleeping form. She was shivering in her sleep, covered only in thin sheets. Sten let out an almost silent sigh and stood from his cot. The top of his head brushed up against the ceiling. He carried his own woollen blanket to her and slid it over her body. He leaned in until his face was inches from her hair and inhaled deeply. He was never able to pinpoint the exact scent she carried with her. It had hints of whatever environment surrounded her, but there was always something extra. Something that was distinctly _her_.

Her eyes snapped open just then, and she stared up at him, a silent question furrowing her brow.

"You were shivering. I found a blanket to cover you," Sten responded tonelessly.

The affection in her gaze was unmistakable. "Thank you."

He nodded and straightened up to return to his cot when he felt her cool hand grasp his wrist. "Will you…" she licked her lips, a sign of uncertainty, and his eyes darted to her mouth. He stood transfixed as he awaited her request. "Will you stay near me and hold my hand until I fall asleep? I-I get nightmares about the Blight, and it sometimes helps if I know someone I trust is within reaching distance…" she glanced at the wall next to her, as though embarrassed by this confession.

"As you wish, _kadan_," Sten laced his fingers through hers, his hand nearly dwarfing her own in size. He sat on the floor next to the bed, his long legs folded beneath him. Her hand began to warm, though he could still see the gooseflesh on her arm in the soft glow of the candlelight. He heard her breathing grow steadily slower as she fell into a deep slumber.

**..::..::..::..::..**

_Their blood was like acid…it burned the flesh and rotted every living thing. It coated her skin, and she looked down at the demonic ichors that attempted to penetrate her pores. She could feel herself twisting inside, the taint slowly transforming her and eating away at her soul. She had never faced so many at once, and idly wondered if it was even possible to emerge from such a battle unchanged. She glanced to her right, and Alistair buried his sword into a hurlock, opening the beast up from groin to throat. Its entrails spilled forth, and she could smell the acrid stench of corpses long digested in its guts. To her absolute horror, Alistair bent down and began feasting on the spawn's innards, a look of divine relish filling his features. He gazed up at her from his meal, and he grinned, his teeth long and pointed. She backed away from this abomination, but some unseen force pushed her forward. Alistair held out his hands, beckoning her to join him in his newfound gluttony. She'd lost control of her body, and she knelt before him, her hands buried to the elbow in darkspawn guts. Her fingers laced around some internal organ, and she brought the putrid flesh to her lips…_

Her wrists were pinned above her head, and an incredible weight bore down on her. She struggled, the air rife with magic as she prepared to cast.

"Be still, _kadan_! You are safe."

She recognized the voice and ceased her struggles, though the remnants of sleep still clung to her. She felt as though she were swimming upward, not quite able to break the surface to take in that first delicious breath of air. She was terrified that she'd lost the ability to breathe, when suddenly a sharp pain lanced through her shoulder and she inhaled sharply. Her vision finally cleared and she saw Sten gazing down at her, his face inches from hers.

"What happened?" she croaked.

"You were having a nightmare and were unable to wake. When I attempted to rouse you, you began struggling. I believe you recognized my voice and stilled, however you were in shock and unable to breathe. I caused you pain to snap you out of your panic," the qunari explained. "I apologize if I hurt you."

Öz vaguely registered the dull throb in her shoulder. "No need to apologize. You probably saved my life. Thanks." Her cheeks flushed and she peered up at him sheepishly. She was suddenly incredibly aware of his close proximity. He had doffed his shirt and was wearing naught but a loose pair of linen breeks that hung at his hips. He continued to hold her wrists, and his breath seemed to quicken as she freely perused his form. How long had this attraction existed between them? She had been intimate with Alistair for such a long time that she scarcely took note of the other males in her company. Since they'd parted ways she'd been too heartbroken to think of anyone in a romantic sense. This sudden frisson of longing that hung between her and Sten at that moment was impossible to ignore. Did he feel it as well? She licked her lips and was about to make some sort of pathetic comment to cut through the silence when she heard him growl low in his throat, much like he had before. Her eyes widened as his head dipped low and he began to nuzzle and nip at her neck. She gasped and her insides fluttered at the contact. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft. His tongue darted out and he licked along the column of her throat, which elicited a moan from her. He let go of her wrists and his fingers tangled in her hair. "Sten," she whispered breathlessly. "I must know – what does it mean?"

"What does what mean?" he asked between nibbles.

"The name you gave me…Özlem…what does it mean?"

"Desired."

He claimed her lips in a scorching kiss.


	3. Isolation

**Disclaimer: **Bioware and EA own Dragon Age. I own a bottle of Jones Cream Soda.

**A/N: **This theme and pairing were suggested by the lovely **Eva Galana**. Sorcha is also her creation, I only breathed a bit of life into her. People are welcomed and encouraged to suggest a particular theme or pairing that they wish to have appear in this fic. Just shoot me a PM.

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**Isolation**

Funny how three little words can change everything between two people. As soon as she'd uttered them she knew that Alistair would not react in the way she'd hoped. She could practically feel the shock and hostility rolling off of him in waves as they made their way back to camp. She supposed his understanding was too much to ask for. She'd been placed in an impossible position, and she'd only done what she thought was right. _Said _what she thought was right. Those three words continued to play through her head, mocking her at every step. She nearly howled with relief as their camp came into view. She repressed the urge to sprint over to her tent and crawl into her bedroll as a means of escaping her fellow Warden. She really wasn't in the mood to debate what had just happened. She knew he would throw her actions back in her face, and any chance at a blossoming romance between the two of them would wither away and die.

All because of three words, three stupid words.

_Right of Conscription._

"Now that we're back at the camp I thought we should talk about what happened – at Redcliffe," Alistair's voice caused her muscles to tense, and she slowly turned to him, forcing a smile to her face.

"I thought it went rather well, all things considered. Don't you?"

"What were you _thinking_?" he bellowed. "Conscripting that-that-_blood mage_! He poisoned the Arl!"

Sorcha Tabris pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew this argument was coming as soon as she had shocked the entire Redcliffe court and announced that Jowan, the infamous apostate mage, would be conscripted into the Grey Wardens. The entire room had been unnaturally silent when she'd made the proclamation. She swore she could hear crickets chirping (along with the sound of that windbag Eamon grinding his teeth). "Look, he was obviously in a _really_ awful position. He'd just escaped the Circle of Magi for crying out loud! That's enough to put anyone on edge. Those Templars are scary with their bucket heads and skirts."

"That doesn't mean we should go and conscript him! Maker's breath, he almost _murdered_ someone! If it hadn't been for us-"

Sorcha's eyes narrowed. Her cheeks flushed from their usual porcelain to a mottled crimson. Alistair realized his misstep immediately. His mouth snapped shut and he turned away from her, his shoulders sagged in resignation.

"He's just angry…give him time and he will come to accept your decision."

Sorcha spun on her heel and came face to face with Leliana. She took a deep breath and pasted on yet another smile that she didn't really feel. "Yeah, I know. I just couldn't let them kill him, or turn him into one of those Tranquil things. I'm sure both Wynne and Alistair will be giving me the stink eye for the next couple of days."

Leliana placed a reassuring hand on the elf's shoulder. "You did the right thing. Everyone deserves a second chance."

Darkness clouded Sorcha's features. "Not true. Sometimes people need to be put down like the rabid dogs they are." She gave a sudden shake of the head. "I should get some rest. We head to Denerim tomorrow morning."

"I'll take first watch," Leliana said. Sorcha smiled and headed toward her tent, stripping her armour off along the way.

**.,;'*';,.,;'*';,. ,;'*';,. ,;'*';,.**

Jowan sat on the bedroll that the Antivan elf had lent him. He was still in mild shock over the day's events. He had woken up that morning fully expecting to die. When one of the guards had come down to wake him and announced that the Warden was a few hours away, he prepared himself for his imminent death. He said a few prayers to the Maker, asking for forgiveness, and for Lily's well being. He shed tears over how badly he'd handled things. He meditated. And he eventually found peace. He was ready to die.

Apparently death wasn't on the list of events for the day.

_The Warden swept into Castle Redcliffe and announced that she had found Andraste's ashes. The Circle mages that had been summoned rushed to prepare for the ritual that would hopefully cure the arl. The healing properties of Andraste's ashes had not been a lie. The arl awoke, and after a much needed bath, called an audience to decide how to best handle Loghain, as well as determine Jowan's fate. He left the latter decision up to the Warden, probably assuming that she'd have Jowan executed. _

_Though Jowan had met the Warden on her previous visit to Redcliffe, he was still taken aback by how much different she looked than the elves from the Tower. For one, she was quite a bit taller. As she stood before Arl Eamon, her Legion of the Dead helmet tucked beneath one arm, he noted that the top of her head reached the arl's chin. Her features were also mildly different from other elves he'd met. The angles of her face were not nearly as finely boned. The only characteristic that truly defined her as an elf were her ears. But even they weren't as long or pointed as most others. As he was busily inspecting her features, he nearly missed the edict that sent everyone in the room reeling._

"_I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription."_

"How're you holding up?"

Jowan glanced up at the Warden, who was peering down at him through wide, inquisitive eyes. She had removed about half of her armour, clad only in a loose fitting tunic and the greaves and boots of her Legion plate. Her auburn hair hung loosely about her shoulders, framing her face. She was no beauty, this strange elf whose origin was unbeknownst to him. She was nothing like Lily, whose beautiful smile brightened every one of his days in the Tower. The Warden didn't have soft, womanly curves like Lily did. In fact, he wasn't sure the Warden had _any_ curves. She was always wearing heavy armour that concealed her figure. Even now as she stood before him in her linen shirt he could only see the vague outline of her toned arms. Maker, this woman could probably easily beat him to a pulp! There was nothing feminine about her. "I'm fine, all things considered. Still can't figure out why you bothered letting me live. I'm sure the rest of your friends are mad at you."

The elf shrugged a shoulder and sent him a lopsided grin. "I've never much cared what other people think. Besides, you seemed to regret what you did, so I thought you deserved a break for once. I know what it's like to have people hate you for being born a certain way."

"Well, I'm grateful for being given another chance. I botched things up so badly back at the Tower, then at Redcliffe…I don't even know if I can make up for all of the bad things I've done," Jowan frowned and shifted his gaze to the ground.

The Warden sighed and bent down, squatting in front of Jowan's bedroll. "We all make mistakes or do things we regret. I know I have."

"Oh really? Have you ever almost killed someone in cold blood?"

The corner of the Warden's mouth kicked up into a wicked grin. "Never."

"See?" Jowan responded haughtily.

"Whenever I try to kill anyone in cold blood, I make sure I succeed." She stood and wandered to her tent and ducked under the front flaps.

**.,;'*';,.,;'*';,. ,;'*';,. ,;'*';,.**

The next morning when Sorcha emerged from her tent, she saw Jowan packing up his bedroll. Alistair was glaring at him while tugging on his armour. Sorcha rolled her eyes and wondered if the possible future king would ever come to accept Jowan as a potential Warden.

Once Jowan had completed folding his bedroll, he gathered some wood and cast a small fire spell to ignite it. Almost as soon as he'd cast, he was sent flying backward. He collided with a large elm tree, and Sorcha heard a sickening snap. Her mouth dropped open in confusion. What had just happened? Then realization struck her and she felt rage build up inside of her, the likes of which she hadn't felt since before she became a Warden. Her eyes snapped emerald fire in Alistair's direction. As if sensing her wrath, he turned toward her and shrank back at what he saw. His hand was still extended from his body, palm facing outward and toward Jowan. Sorcha took deep breaths, desperately trying to maintain control over her urge to strike out against her fellow Warden. He crept toward her slowly. "Sorcha, I-"

"Get away from me, _shem_," she spat and spun away from him. She stalked toward Jowan, her hands clenched into fists. When she reached him, she saw the look of fear on his face and her features immediately softened. "Are you alright?" she asked gently.

"I'm not sure…I think someone used Smite on me. I didn't know there were any Templars around," he slowly pulled himself into a seated position. "I think my leg might be broken."

Sorcha frowned and knelt down. She lifted Jowan's robes to inspect his leg. As she felt along his thigh she did notice there was quite a bit of bruising and swelling. She heard his sudden sharp intake of breath and glanced up at him to ensure she hadn't hurt him while trying to determine his injuries. She was surprised to find that his face was flaming. "Wha-?" As she turned her gaze back to her hands, she realized the cause of Jowan's embarrassment, and felt her own cheeks heat up. He'd obviously reacted to her explorative hands in a way that was decidedly unexpected for both of them. She cleared her throat to gloss over the awkward silence. "Right, I can have Wynne see to your injury. I'm sure she can have you good as new in no time flat. Shouldn't be too hard-I mean, difficult. Shouldn't be too difficult."

Jowan was staring at the ground beside him. "Thanks. Who did it, anyway?"

"It was, uh…well, it's not important. Just trust me when I say they'll be dealt with accordingly. You're safe in my company, despite all evidence to the contrary," a nervous giggle escaped her lips. She was behaving like a moron, and for the life of her, she didn't understand why. "I'll be right back, you stay here." _As if he could go anywhere. _She hurried off to Wynne's tent, who apparently slept like the dead (she smirked at the analogy) considering everyone else in her party was up and gaping at the scene that had just unfolded.

**.,;'*';,.,;'*';,. ,;'*';,. ,;'*';,.**

Jowan slid his hand over his face. He had reacted like a pre-pubescent boy in front of the Warden, and he was ready to crawl under a rock and die. Unfortunately, given the fact that his leg was possibly broken, crawling wasn't something he had the luxury of doing. He'd been hurt before, and he'd had women far more attractive than the Warden see to his injuries. Only he couldn't remember them having hands as gentle as hers. Their touches had been cold and clinical. Hers had been warm and tentative. It wasn't as though her hands were soft. They bore calluses from years of fighting with sword and shield. But they were small, the way an elf's hands usually were, and they practically oozed with the concern she'd shown him. It was as though she actually cared about what happened to him. Living in the Tower, he'd never met anyone that regarded him with anything more than a passing fascination (other than Lily, of course). Relationships were superficial for the most part. Mages were never taught social pleasantries. They behaved quite similarly to children, caring mostly for themselves and their own interests. It wasn't until he'd met Lily that Jowan had thought to seek anything deeper than physical intimacy from a woman. She taught him about love, and he'd sullied it by dabbling in the darkest of arts. He was too busy sulking and wondering why he'd reacted the way he had to notice Wynne crouching next to him.

"It seems you need a bit of healing," she said coolly.

Jowan groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was to be scolded by one of the Tower's preachiest senior mages. "Yes, if it isn't too much trouble."

"No, it is not too much trouble. As a mage it's my duty to help those in need," she replied, her lips thinned into a line.

Jowan tried not to rise to the bait, really he did, but in the end he couldn't help himself. "Look, I know I made some terrible mistakes, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish I could go back and change everything."

"Do you know what happened after you left? Do you even care? Your friend Amell was to be made Tranquil for assisting you in your escape. He was locked and sequestered in his chambers for several weeks. It was then that the Templars began turning, and the mages became abominations. I have been told that your friend fought valiantly against them, saving several mages from death, only to be killed by a possessed Templar. Before she found me, Petra witnessed the entire thing. Did you know that Irving was going to put Amell's name forward as a Grey Warden recruit? He told me all about it before I left for Ostagar. Only, Amell never got a chance to test out his true potential because he helped a friend in need who deceived him in the end. You will have to forgive me if your repentant words fall on deaf ears," she placed her hands on Jowan's leg and set to healing the injury. He felt the familiar pins and needles sensation of the healing spell, then the inevitable burn of the bone setting back into place. He gritted his teeth and stifled a groan. When Wynne was finished, she simply stood and left. He flexed his leg experimentally and found that it felt much better. A loaf of bread and some cheese was suddenly thrust under his nose.

"Here, I thought you might be hungry," the Warden was standing in front of him yet again.

"Thank you," Jowan took the food from her, and she sat next to him, folding her legs so that her chin rested on her knees. She had her hair pulled into a ponytail, and she regarded Jowan with what he considered to be the greenest eyes he'd ever seen.

"What was it like in the Tower?" she asked conversationally.

He tilted his head to one side as he considered her question. "For the most part it was alright. Everyone knew each other, but we pretty much kept to ourselves. It could be lonely sometimes, and the Templars were terrifying. We were always worried that one might get overly enthusiastic and kill someone. But I suppose we were a family of sorts…one big, violent, murderous, dysfunctional family."

She chuckled. "Sounds a lot like life in the Alienage. Only we were running from humans instead of Templars. We were all very close though, looking out for each other whenever possible." She sighed and gave him a sidelong glance. "Sorry, I just get a bit nostalgic sometimes."

"How did you become a Grey Warden?"

Her shoulders tensed. This was obviously a sensitive subject for her. "Some bastard shems raped my cousin and killed my fiancé. So I slaughtered them. When the guard was getting ready to arrest me, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden happened to be there, and he conscripted me."

"Sort of like what you did for me…" Jowan murmured.

The Warden shrugged a shoulder. "I thought you'd proven yourself more than worthy of a second chance."

"Thank you…for believing in me. Only one other person ever has before, and I let him down. I won't make that mistake again."

She smiled at him warmly, and for a moment the rest of the world disappeared. Jowan's sole focus was her full lips. He suddenly wondered what they tasted like, if they were as soft as they looked. His mouth went dry when he saw her tongue dart out of her mouth to lick at those beautiful lips nervously. Oh Maker, the things those wicked lips could do…his imagination was quickly running away, and he dimly thought that perhaps now was not the best time to start thinking impure thoughts about the woman that rescued him from certain death.

"I should probably go pack up my things. We need to reach Denerim as soon as possible," she said in a rush of words. She pushed herself to her feet and gave him one last nervous smile. "It won't be easy for you, especially not with Wynne and Alistair. But I promise that what happened this morning will never happen again. Not on my watch."

It took him a moment to realize that she'd meant the attack on him, and not the strange, heated moment that passed between them.

**.,;'*';,.,;'*';,. ,;'*';,. ,;'*';,.**

She was in shock when she entered the Alienage. It was so much worse than when she'd left it. Sergeant Kylon, an old friend of hers who had always viewed her mischievous behaviour on her few visits to the Market District as a mild irritation but mostly 'cute', had warned her of the dire circumstances the elves faced. The entire Elven District had been cordoned off. Apparently some sort of plague was circling through Denerim's ghetto population. She watched as friends and relatives were lined up and forced into what she remembered as abandoned apartments. She finally happened upon a face she was all too happy to see. Her cousin Shianni was voicing her displeasure at the crowd's willingness to do whatever the humans told them. Eventually, Sorcha was able to capture Shianni's attention.

"Cousin! What are you doing here?" Shianni asked, eyes wide with wonder.

"I came to see what was going on," Sorcha replied. Her friends fell in behind her, offering their silent support. Strangely, it was Jowan's presence she felt most. The two had become close friends during their travel to Denerim. Once he had relaxed and became more comfortable with the idea of travelling with them, Sorcha found that Jowan could be quite funny and witty when he wanted. She often found him staring at her in camp, though he'd always glance away quickly. She wondered if he felt the same fluttering sensation that she did whenever they were near each other, that feeling of falling with no ground to land upon. They'd gotten into a few scuffs on their way to their destination, and he'd always proven himself a useful ally in a fight. She'd never seen him use Blood Magic, and could tell that Alistair was constantly watching for any signs of it.

After several minutes of stilted small talk, her cousin dropped the bomb on her.

"I'm so sorry, Cousin. Your father was taken into those apartments. They claimed he was carrying the disease, but he didn't look sick at all," she rested a hand on Sorcha's arm.

Sorcha's blood turned to ice. Although she and her father had their differences, she still loved him unconditionally. The thought that he might be hurt or dead…she felt the urge to vomit. She needed to get away, be somewhere familiar. She made some lame excuse about investigating and having to do it on her own, and left. She didn't have any particular destination in mind when she started walking, she just wanted to put some space between her and everyone else. She wasn't in the least bit surprised when she found herself outside of her childhood home. She entered the house and glanced around. She didn't know what she was looking for, perhaps some clue as to what happened to her father. She wandered into her bedroom and sat on her bed. It felt so strange to her in that moment, like it belonged to a girl that died many years ago. She reached down and picked up the rag doll she used to sleep with. It had been a gift from her mother, who had told her it would protect her always. She clutched the doll to her chest and was overcome by grief. Grief over what had happened, and grief over what could have been. Would her mother be proud of the woman she'd become? Or would she condemn her as a thief and murderess?

"Sorcha? Are you alright?"

She glanced up and saw Jowan standing in her bedroom doorway. She shrugged a shoulder because she honestly wasn't sure if she would ever be 'alright'. Being back home only reminded her of a relatively carefree childhood. At least, carefree compared to the weight that now rested on her shoulders. Jowan seemed to understand her need for comfort and entered the room, taking a seat next to her on the bed.

"I bet you didn't see your life turning out this way, did you?" he asked softly.

She shook her head by way of reply.

"Neither did I. A year ago my biggest concern was whether or not I'd be able to learn how to manipulate a good lightning spell. Now I'm fighting darkspawn and helping you to rally enough support to prevent a civil war," he chuckled darkly. After a few moments of silence, he hesitantly placed an arm around her shoulders. "You know, I'm not sure if anyone has ever told you this, but you truly are amazing."

Sorcha started slightly at his compliment and turned her face to gaze up at him. His violet eyes shone with respect and…something else. Something she couldn't quite place, but whatever it was, it made her pulse race. She felt his fingers on her cheek, slowly drawing her face toward his, and her lips parted. His mouth was upon hers in an instant, and she felt the need that he'd been trying to stifle these past weeks. Desire thrummed through her veins as he drank her in, tasting her with lips, tongue and teeth. She spiked her fingers through his hair, desperate to have him closer, to have more of him. His mouth left hers and kissed a trail along her jaw line. When his tongue darted out to flick her earlobe, she moaned softly. How did he know about her ears? She was tempted to ask, but soon all rational thought fled as his clever tongue laved her ear from lobe to pointed tip.

"Sorcha…so beautiful…" he whispered against the curve of her neck. "Don't worry, we'll find your father, and all of this will seem like a bad dream."

As his arms circled her in a crushing embrace, Sorcha marvelled at just how strange her life had become.

**.,;'*';,.,;'*';,. ,;'*';,. ,;'*';,.**

With the rescue of Riordan, and the defeat of Loghain at the Landsmeet, Jowan awaited anxiously for the time of his Joining. When it was explained to him that the Joining could be fatal, he wasn't in the least bit surprised. Riordan, Alistair, Sorcha and he gathered for the ritual. He read the fear in Sorcha's eyes. He felt the hostility in Alistair's glare. He knew the ex-Templar would whoop with joy if he kicked the bucket at this point. Riordan simply seemed hopeful that he'd survive to provide help in the upcoming battle against the archdemon. Jowan held the Joining chalice to his lips. The thought of drinking a bunch of darkspawn blood wasn't exactly appealing, but if it meant he'd live to see another day with the woman he'd come to care for so deeply, he was willing to endure it. He tilted his head back and took a large gulp of the tainted substance. It seemed to coat his tongue and tasted of copper and sulphur. He nearly gagged, but the feeling soon gave way to a lancing pain that ripped through his insides. He saw and heard darkspawn all around him, taunting him with their very existence. They surrounded him, weapons held above their heads, ready to take him apart, limb by limb. Jowan let loose a blood-curdling scream, and everything went black.

When he awoke, a cool cloth was pressed to his forehead. Sorcha gazed down at him and he felt relief that he had survived. He reached up and grazed his fingers along her cheek, and she turned her face and kissed the palm of his hand. Something was wrong, he sensed it from her almost immediately.

"Riordan had a chat with us while you were recovering. It seems that Duncan neglected to tell us something vital about being a Grey Warden and fighting the archdemon," she gripped his hand tightly. "Grey Wardens have always been needed to defeat a Blight, and the reason is…whoever kills the archdemon…dies."

Jowan bolted upright, nearly bumping heads with Sorcha in the process. "If it comes down to it, I'll be the one to destroy it."

She smiled at him sadly. "Riordan has told us that as senior Warden, he will take the killing blow, but if he should fall before-hand, it will be up to us."

He nodded solemnly. He knew without a doubt that this was his destiny. This is how he would find redemption from all the hurts he'd caused. Somehow he knew that Riordan would not succeed in killing the archdemon, and that he would be the one to sacrifice himself. He wasn't scared in the least, in fact, the idea was strangely soothing. He crushed Sorcha against his chest.

They made love for the first time that night. It started with fervent kisses, hands desperately exploring each other's bodies. Fevered flesh pressed together, sweat beading upon their skin. Soon their joining shifted from frenzied to slow and languid, neither one wanting the night to end, for sunlight brought death and destruction. They didn't care if their cries could be heard throughout the rest of the castle. This could very well be their last night together, and they intended to bring each other to blinding ecstasy as many times as possible. As twilight faded to starlight, they curled up together, their bodies entwined beneath the bed covers. Laboured breathing echoed through the room.

"I love you," Jowan professed without hesitation.

Sorcha turned her gaze toward him, and he saw the love in her eyes. It was enough to make Jowan weep. "And I love you. Always."

**.,;'*';,.,;'*';,. ,;'*';,. ,;'*';,.**

_My love,_

_This is the way things had to be, you must know this. I have absolutely no regrets. The love we shared is what kept me going. After what happened, I didn't think it possible to care for someone so deeply. Both of our lives were filled with pain, and we were cast aside by society for something neither one of us had control over. I think this is why we so easily fell in love with each other, our ability to understand each other. _

_I know you must be angry with me for running off and dying the way I did, and I hope that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me. It was a sacrifice that needed to be made, and it was my duty to make it. I will be with you in your dreams, and in the memories we made together. I'm not sure what happens when we die, but if there is something beyond all of this, then I know I will eventually meet you there._

_Remember what I told you that night: I love you. Always._

_Yours forever,_

_Sorcha_


	4. Comfort

**Disclaimer: **Bioware and EA own Dragon Age and its characters. I own a pretty necklace. Oooh shiny...

**A/N: **The theme and...erm...pairing (not romantic, that's just...*Cough*) were offered up by the beautiful and bodacious **Natmonkey**. Anyone who wishes to have a particular pairing/theme included in the Medley are welcomed and encouraged to PM me with the details. The writing on the wall is Sylvia Plath's _Mad Girl's Love Song_.

* * *

**Comfort**

**Day 1**

One window. That is the only source of light that penetrates the darkness of the dungeon. I wonder idly if they will light a candle for me when the sun sets and night rolls in. Somehow I doubt it.

This particular cell is different from the others. The ones I'd been in before had neighbouring cells, and sometimes those cells housed delinquents such as I. Unfortunately, when one breaks the same rule four times within a two month period, harsher measures are taken.

Solitary confinement.

The very idea sends a chill down my spine. Humans are social creatures by nature, and I am more social than most. The thought of spending more than a day locked up alone in such wretched living conditions is enough to set my teeth on edge. Judging by the graffiti on the wall, the previous tenants didn't much enjoy their stay either.

_The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,  
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:  
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._

_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_  
_And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane._  
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

Yes, obviously insane.

The day passes by slowly. The only break in the monotony is when a Templar enters to drop a bowl of watered down soup in front of me, and a cup of warm water. He doesn't say a word. I suppose that would defeat the solitary part of the confinement. As soon as I finish three quarters of my soup, my stomach rolls in a fit of nausea. Maker forbid they should give me food that won't pop back up and say hello minutes after passing my lips. I hurry over to one corner of my cell and retch. The contents of my stomach splatter onto the floor and the air becomes rife with its fetid stink. Just wonderful.

And then the darkness comes. It isn't immediate, it comes slowly, taunting me in its approach. It knows that once it arrives the cell will be pitch black and stifling. I begin humming to myself to stave off the deafening silence.

The darkness is unbearable. With it, it brings the scurrying of little feet. Rats. I'm not sure which is worse, the silence or the sounds that the rats make. The knowledge that they share the cell with me is more than a little unsettling, especially since I'm terrified of rats.

I have no bed to sleep on, not even a bloody pallet. The cell is now completely shrouded in darkness. I can't see my hand as I hold it up in front of my face. I curl up on the hard floor and close my eyes. Sleep does not come easily, and the smell of my vomit continues to plague me. How long can they keep me down here?

I let out a tiny yelp as something scurries across my leg. With a mewl of fear I curl up into myself.

**Day 2**

At some point I must have fallen asleep, for I'm woken by the day's first rays of light. I hold a hand up to my face to shield my eyes, which are sensitive from spending so many hours in complete darkness.

I glance around and notice a large hole in the wall quite close to where I fell asleep. How did I not see that earlier? I crawl over to it and try to peer inside. Of course I can't see a damn thing, but you never know. It could have been a view straight into the women's bath area. Another scream escapes my throat as a pointed nose and black beady eyes pop out of the hole. So that's where the rats came from! It scurries out and comes straight at me. I crawl backward as quickly as I can, but it's no use. The rat will be on me in seconds.

A flash of orange and suddenly the rat is no longer in front of me. It's on its back and being tormented by a very large…cat? The cat begins pawing at the rat, batting it and clawing at the rodent's increasingly bloodied form. A few nips of its teeth and soon the rat is no longer moving. The large orange cat meows happily and grips the rat in its teeth, carrying it back to the hole it emerged from.

"Wait, kitty! Don't go! I want to thank you for saving me!"

The cat ignores me of course. It's much more interested in its ratty meal. Oh well, at least it added an element of excitement to the day.

I'm extraordinarily hungry, after having tossed up yesterday's single meal. I wait anxiously for today's allotted portion, and it finally arrives at approximately midday (the only way I have of knowing it's midday is the fact that the room seems to be at its brightest). Another bowl of cold soup, and this time I manage to hold it down. Sadly, this Templar is no different than yesterday's, and he doesn't speak a word to me. The cat doesn't return either.

Once again I'm left alone in the darkness.

**Day 5**

It's not natural to be all by yourself for so long. I've begun talking to the writing on the wall, pretending that the words are part of a conversation. I feel weak from eating nothing but watered down soup once a day. There's a dull throb just behind my eyes that grows steadily worse as the light shines through that Maker forsaken window. Though my eyes adjust well to complete darkness, my mind does not. I've begun imagining that there are insects crawling around my cell. Sometimes I can even feel them on my skin. I try scratching at my flesh, hard enough to make it bleed, but the sensation doesn't abate.

Did they put something in my food?

**Day 6**

The door to my cell swings open and two Templars enter. One is tall and built like a bull, the other is of average height and build. I have no way of being able to identify either, since they're wearing their helms. This is definitely a change in pace. Neither one has any food, so they're not dropping off my midday meal.

"Hello boys, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

They don't reply, at least not with words. The Bull punches me square in the face, and the steel from his armour splits my lip like a knife slicing through warm butter. I take inventory of my teeth with my tongue and spit out a mouthful of blood.

"Was that really necessary? I know I can be a bit mouthy, but that hardly constitutes-"

My comment is cut off by a knee to the stomach, which is followed by another punch, this one to the back of my head. My forehead hits the ground hard, and the average sized Templar grabs my hair in his fist and drives my cheek against the cold stone. I can feel the flesh being shred to ribbons. The Bull kicks me several times in the ribs, and I'm almost certain I hear one of the bones snap. I can only hope that it doesn't puncture any of my organs. They eventually tire of beating me senseless, and Mr. Average withdraws a dagger from his belt. For a few terrifying moments I'm sure that he's going to plunge the blade straight into my heart, but he instead cuts through the cloth of my robe. He strips them from my body and tosses them out into the hall behind him. I don't think I've ever had to endure such humiliation. They leave me in my cell, bruised, broken and bloodied. The chill of the stones against my bare skin is at first intolerable, but as my injuries begin to swell, I take mild comfort in the floor's coolness. I make one feeble attempt at sitting upright, but a sharp pain shooting through my abdomen keeps me curled in the foetal position.

_Meow._

I turn my head slightly and my gaze settles on the cat from a few days ago. It's staring at me through green eyes, its head tilted to one side. A short glance to his lower half tells me that this particular kitty is a boy. Lying at his feet is a dead rat. He gently nudges it in my direction with his nose. Apparently he's brought me a gift.

_Meow._

"Is that for me, kitty?"

_Meow._

"I can't say I'm a huge fan of rat tar-tar, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same." Leave it to me to find levity in an all around crummy situation. Here I lie on the ground, my head throbbing, my body ready to shut down from the beating it's taken, naked and making idle chit-chat with an orange cat.

"Do you have a name, kitty?"

_Meow._

"Well, you do now. Let's see here, you don't look like a 'Bandit' or 'Felix'…I know! From now on you'll be called Wiggums! _Mister_ Wiggums!"

Mr. Wiggums places a paw on my cheek and meows once again. I think he approves of his new name. He pads around the cell, sniffing at the wall, his tail twitching all the while. When another rat emerges from the hole, he pounces on it and makes short work of the disgusting rodent. He places his latest kill in front of me along with the other dead rat. It would seem that I've made a new friend.

Like all good things, this too reached an end as the darkness drew near. The Templars hadn't returned to give me any food, and my stomach is growling insistently. I toy with the idea of eating the dead rats, but seeing as the cell prevents spell casting, I have no way of cooking the blighted things.

It isn't long before the cell is once again pitch black. I manage to inch my way to the wall and lean against it. The sensation that bugs are crawling on me returns, and I'm quite certain that it's the result of some enchantment meant to torture the occupants. Nevertheless, the sensation is highly revolting and I begin to scratch at my already raw flesh. Several whimpers escape my lips as my fingernails continue to scrape at the invisible insects. No wonder the poor buggers who stayed here before me went mad. My mind feels like it's ready to snap. Suddenly a warm body curls onto my lap and I hear soft purring. Mr. Wiggums has managed to find his way to me, and if I didn't know any better I would swear that he's comforting me. His purrs cause soothing vibrations that drive away the phantom crawling sensations, and lull me into a deep sleep. As his tail brushes soothingly against my chest, I marvel that this is the first time I've managed to sleep well since I've arrived in this hole.

**Day 7**

"_Open the door_," comes a distinctly feminine voice from the outside of my cell. I want to tell her that I can't open the door, when I hear the sound of a key turning in a lock. Have they finally decided my fate? The door swings open and a Templar stands at the threshold, his body ramrod straight. "_Good, now sleep…"_

I can tell by the tone of voice that the woman is casting, yet how she's able to do so is beyond me. The Templar falls to the ground in a heap and reveals my visitor. Long ginger hair and large dark eyes tell me that this is the infamous apprentice that is the cause of many rumours. One such rumour tells that she was found roaming the halls in the dead of night, the back of her dressing gown soaked through with her own blood. As such, she earned quite a nickname: Solona the Bloody. To me, she's just plain Lona, the chit that until my last escape attempt I'd been tutoring in the healing arts. She was taking to it quite well before I up and left. She's the last person I expect to find in this pit, yet here she is, arms folded under her ample bosom while she assesses the severity of my injuries.

"Lona?" I ask in a stupefied manner. She smiles at me and shoves the Templar out of the way. "How did you manage to cast? I thought the room was enchanted."

"It's not enchanted to halt forbidden magic, which is rather humorous when you think about it. Many of the captives have been held because of practicing forbidden magic, no doubt. I did a bit of research before coming down here," she replies while entering the cell. A red light envelops her and her skin grows pale, while I feel my wounds start to knit together. I recognize the spell, though when I read about it, the object was to zap the life force of your enemies in order to replenish your own health. She's apparently discovered a way to do the opposite. Clever girl.

"Why _are_ you here?"

She frowns and reaches into a bag that's slung over her shoulder. She extracts a pair of breeches and a tunic, which she hands to me. "I overheard a couple of Templars boasting about beating you to a pulp, then stripping you of your robes. The way they were laughing…I couldn't stand it. I hate those bastard Templars, they're all scum."

Somehow I think that her hatred for the bucket heads runs deeper than that of most other mages. "So you're a blood ma-"

Her eyes narrow angrily. "You never saw me here. The way out is clear, I've managed to incapacitate the other guards. When they wake, they won't remember a thing."

I pull on the clothes, which are a bit tight but will have to suffice for the time being. I feel a light caress on my shins and glance down to find Mr. Wiggums staring up at me. "My cat…"

Lona bends down and plucks up my furry friend. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of him."

It seems strange to feel so attached to an animal, but the little guy helped me through quite a harrowing night. I almost want to take him with me, but to do so would only put him in danger. Instead I pat his head affectionately. "Hopefully we won't ever see each other again," I whisper into his ear. "Though, knowing my luck I'll be back before the week is through." I straighten up as something suddenly occurs to me. "You said that the room isn't warded against forbidden magic…but you cast Sleep on that Templar. That's not forbidden."

She grins at me wickedly. "I didn't cast sleep…he was under my control so I _ordered _him to sleep."

"That's…quite frightening actually."

"Isn't it though?" She gestures for me to get lost. I pull her into a quick hug before I dart out of the cell and make my way through the dank halls. As promised, the guards are all snoring away on the ground. This escape is almost too easy, but who am I to complain? As I race through the front gate, I cast one last glance over my shoulder and wonder if it really is my last time seeing Mr. Wiggums…or Solona the Bloody for that matter.

Only time will tell.


	5. Vengeance

**Disclaimer: **Bioware and EA own Dragon Age. I own a new purse and wallet!

**A/N: **Readers are enouraged to submit any ideas for themes or pairings that they wish to have appear in this series. Many thanks to all those who have read, reviewed, and fave'd.

**Warning: **Contains gore.

* * *

**Vengeance**

Funny how death can change a person.

Nathaniel was not an evil man by nature. He was not his father's son. Although he was born a noble, he was swept into a rustic life in the Free Marches, which taught him to appreciate the finer things in life. He was a sensitive person, and took to heart his father's taunts. He wished for nothing more than to make his father proud, but nothing he did seemed good enough. On some occasions, he could have sworn his father went out of his way to convey just how much of a disappointment Nathaniel was. When Arl Rendon Howe announced that he planned on putting Nathaniel's brother Thomas forward as a possible suitor for the comely Cousland lass, it nearly broke Nathaniel's heart. His father knew that his love for Imogen Cousland ran deep. To see her wed to his brother, a brat who spent his time swilling wine and chasing wenches…she deserved so much more than that. Being sent to the Free Marches was almost a blessing. Before he left, he received a message from the Keep's groundskeeper, Samuel. It was a note from Imogen. With his heart racing, he broke the wax seal and saw the feminine script he'd become so used to. He often teased her that a warrior of her calibre, a woman with muscles that sculpted her frame, still managed to write a letter like a true noblewoman. He brought the letter to his nose and inhaled deeply. It even smelled like her: pine needles and lavender. She wrote of all the adventures he'd experience in the Free Marches, and that she would wait for him until he returned. She wrote of her love for him, and of how he was the only one who understood her need for independence. Inside the letter was a ring…the ring her grandmother had given to her as a little girl. She had slipped a chain through it so that he might wear it around his neck as a reminder of their times together. It was then that he realized that she was unaware of his father's plans to put Thomas forth as a suitor. He gripped the ring in his fist and gritted his teeth. As angry as he was in that moment, he would treasure her gift, and her love.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

The murdering bitch was dead. She dared slaughter his father and drag his family through the mud. After everything they'd shared, she'd spat on him. They called her the Hero of Ferelden. What a joke. She'd fallen just as easily as any other man, woman, or child.

He'd crept into Vigil's Keep following the Darkspawn siege and took cover in the shadows. When he saw her enter the Throne Room, her dragonbone armour was covered in darkspawn blood. Her mousy brown hair was dishevelled and matted to her head. Bits of bone and gore clung to the strands. She didn't seem to notice. She simply stood before her Seneschal, took notes from the captain of the guard and treasurer, and commenced some secret ritual for an apostate mage, a dwarf and a young female warrior. It was obvious that she was a capable leader, but she was still a monster beneath all of the sparkle and shine. It wasn't long before she retired to her chambers. To his surprise she chose his own bedroom as her living quarters – the smallest in the Keep. This was also to his advantage, for he knew every nook and cranny of the room, and was able to lie in wait, ready to pounce when she least expected it.

She stripped off her armour, and to his absolute disgust he enjoyed what he saw. She still possessed the sinewy muscles that set her apart from the other women of the court. Her arms were toned, but not overtly masculine. As a warrior she relied heavily on strength, and she needed to be as strong as any man. Her breasts were modest, but that suited Nathaniel just fine, and her chest tapered to a narrow waist and ample hips. As she removed her greaves, he marvelled at the most muscular part of her body: her thighs. He'd had them wrapped around his waist and neck countless times. He recalled every time she cried out his name in pleasure, and he hers. Imogen. His Imogen. A murderous bitch. As she turned to fill her wash basin with warm water, he made his move. He snuck up behind her, dagger at her throat. She made no sound of surprise, no stiffening of her limbs. It was as though she expected the encounter.

"You killed my father," he snarled.

"Yes, I did," she replied simply.

The rage churned his insides, and he tightened his grip on the blade. "And now I will kill you." The movement of his arm was swift, and the flesh of her throat sliced open easily. Blood sprayed the wall opposite her, and it stained her peaches and cream complexion, rendering it crimson. Her arms and legs flailed about wildly, yet Nathaniel held her in place. When her struggles were little more than slight twitches, he let her drop to the floor. To his horror, she was not yet dead. Her lips moved - either damning him or pleading forgiveness. In between each movement of her lips was a wheezing exhalation of breath, though the air passed through the slit in her throat and not her mouth. Air bubbles filled and popped which sounded to Nathaniel like a cacophony of hail striking against a tin roof. She gazed up at him, her amber eyes imploring…_why didn't you at least let me explain?_ A tear rolled down her cheek, mingling with the blood leaking from her lips. She coughed several times, the action racking her body violently. And then she was still. He wiped his blade on her bed linens. He thought that he would be filled with deep satisfaction. He was not. He felt numb. He reached under his leather armour and snapped the chain from his neck. He fingered the ring she'd given him so long ago, and knelt down to shove it into her mouth. His thirst for vengeance had been quenched. It was time to move on.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

He was certain that he would be hung for his crime, yet no guards came to collect him. The rumour was that the assassin left no evidence behind. At the end of the fourth week, Nathaniel ventured out to the Crown and Lion for a drink and some night time entertainment. He was living as a ghost in his own home land, and he thought it was about time he announced his presence. No sooner had he entered the bar when a familiar voice beckoned him.

"Nathaniel! I can't believe it! You're alive!"

Nathaniel turned toward the young woman, and his heart fluttered madly. He'd thought that Delilah had perished during the civil war, and yet she'd lived and was here in Amaranthine. "Delilah! What are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly! And I'm married with a child on the way! You're going to be an uncle! Isn't that wonderful?" she exclaimed.

"An uncle…" he repeated bewilderedly. "Where in the city are you living? The Keep has been taken over by the bloody Grey Wardens."

Delilah's lips turned down into a chiding frown. "I'll not hear you say one word against those brave men and women. My husband and I used to live in the slums, but the Commander, Maker rest her soul, left us money so that Albert – that's my husband – could start his very own Blacksmith business. He's become quite successful, best smithy in Amaranthine they say. And it's all thanks to the late Commander of the Grey."

Nathaniel's ire rose and he practically choked on his ale. "The Commander of the Grey? As in the late Imogen Cousland?"

"Yes, of course. I seem to recall the two of you—"

"Delilah, she murdered our father! She soiled our name! How can you defend her?" Nathaniel roared.

Delilah's features seemed to grow more sorrowful with each passing word. "Oh, Nate, didn't you know? Father had turned into a monster. He slaughtered the entire Cousland family because of his own ambitions. He took over as Arl of Denerim and he…Nathaniel he _tortured _people. He tortured them, and he _enjoyed _watching them suffer. You don't know what he became in those years you were in the Free Marches. In fact, as I heard from one of father's guards, Imogen offered to arrest father and have him stand trial for his crimes, but he would have none of it. He attacked her, and she killed him in self defence."

"That-that's not possible," Nathaniel murmured.

"I'm afraid that's what happened. She did us all a favour Nathaniel. She deserved so much more than the death she received." Delilah took a moment to collect herself, then plastered a smile on her face. "Come, dear brother, there's someone I'd love for you to meet!"

Nathaniel allowed his sister to lead him to one of the tavern tables. He barely registered the boisterous laughter booming through the establishment. He was still digesting everything his sister had told him. Had he made a mistake? Was Imogen Cousland truly innocent of her crime?

"Nathaniel, allow me to introduce a friend of mine. Her name is Vasilia."

A tall, lithe woman stood from her seat at the table. Her long, charcoal hair was intricately braided. She held her hand out to Nathaniel and regarded him with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. She was simply beautiful. "It is a pleasure to meet you, milord." She spoke with a thick Amaranthine accent, obviously a native.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied. He took her hand in his and noted that while she had long delicate fingers, they were calloused. She was used to a pilgrim's way of life. He asked her about her family, and she revealed that she had lived in Amaranthine her entire life. She worked on her father's farmstead by day, and occasionally stood in as a midwife should the need ever arise. Nathaniel was clearly attracted to her, for she reminded him of Imogen in the days before he'd left for the Free Marches. Vasilia was down to earth and very charming. She had a way of flirting with him that didn't make her seem like a strumpet. Eventually Delilah excused herself, claiming fatigue, leaving Nathaniel alone with his new friend. At that point they were well into their cups, and when the Howe suggested they retire for the evening, she was willing to invite him to her room at the inn. Never one to back down from a sure thing (especially while inebriated), Nathaniel agreed. He half carried her to her room, trying not to think too hard on the fact that she was so similar to Imogen, and that perhaps he was seeking some way to fill the hole in his heart that had been torn asunder. Vasilia giggled as she fumbled with her room key, finally succeeding in letting them in. Nathaniel took a seat on the bed while Vasilia locked the door and wandered over to a decanter of what Nathaniel thought might be brandy. She poured two glasses and handed one to Nathaniel.

"What shall we drink to?" she asked, her voice slightly slurred.

Nathaniel held up his glass. "To new beginnings!" He took a long pull of the brandy, emptying it in a single gulp. He handed his empty glass to Vasilia, who placed the glasses on a bedside table. A strange sensation suddenly overtook him. He became aware of the fact that his partner's glass was still full. He turned to her, a question on his lips. He nearly recoiled when he noted the look of naked hatred on her features. His limbs suddenly felt extremely heavy. His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. Soon he was only capable of breathing, and even that took effort on his part.

Vasilia extracted two items just then. One from her boot, and one that had been tucked away in her dress. The first was a dagger, obviously of superior make. The second was the ring that Imogen had given him so many years ago. The same ring he had shoved into her mouth as she lay dead on the floor of his chambers.

"She loved you until the very end," Vasilia hissed. Nathaniel was fairly certain that Vasilia was not in fact her real name. "You butchered her and left her to die…you desecrated her body. You are filth." The woman's voice no longer held the Amaranthine burr he'd been so fond of earlier. She unbraided her hair, letting the charcoal locks hang loose around her shoulders. She climbed onto the bed, her hair tickling his torso, and eventually framing his face. His body was paralysed, but he felt every sensation. She had poisoned him, this raven haired beauty. He had to give her credit, he never saw it coming. In one moment, he was gazing up into her ice blue gaze. In the next, he felt the dagger plunge into his pelvis. She dragged the blade upward, sawing through muscle and bone. His entrails spilled forth, followed closely by his other vital organs. She did not stop until she'd reached his chin. "I was in love with her. She knew of my sordid past and accepted me despite it all. She was a true hero, and you are nothing but a pig, a pig that has been gutted and will be served to the dogs." She spat in his face and crawled off the bed.

Nathaniel's last thoughts were of Imogen. Her smile, her eyes, her laughter, and her death by his hand.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

She wandered over to the bath she'd had brought to her room earlier that evening. The water was cold, but it hardly mattered to her. She stripped off her bloodied garments and stepped into the metallic basin. The water became the colour of rust within seconds. She scrubbed her arms, her torso, her legs and face. Once satisfied that she'd cleansed her body of blood, she dipped her hair into the water. The water immediately changed from rust to black. She dragged her fingers through her hair, using the soap she'd used on her body. She worked up a lather and once again dunked her hair into the water. When she emerged, her tresses were their natural colour. The concoction of rock alum, black sulfur, and honey had worked wonders in changing her hair colour. She stepped out of the bath and dried off. She pulled a clean dress over her head and sauntered over to the vanity. She cut her hair with a pair of rusty scissors and tossed the locks into the fireplace. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The people of the inn had seen a woman with long dark hair enter the room with Nathaniel Howe. They would not notice the woman with chin length red hair depart, for she would stay to the shadows. She slipped Imogen's ring on her finger and kissed it, shedding several tears for her beloved friend.

Funny how death can change a person.

And Leliana was no exception.


	6. Heartbreak

**Disclaimer: **Bioware and EA own Dragon Age. I own my pretty flower hair clip.

**A/N:** Angst alert. This chapter is about how different characters deal with heartbreak. The theme was provided by Clowns Have Feelings Too. There's some icky gore and allusions to rape in this chapter, so you've been warned. Thanks go out to all my readers and reviewers. Anyone wishing to see a particular theme or pairing show up in this medley need only PM me. ;D

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**Heartbreak (In Fragments)**

Sweat beaded on his brow. He held the delicate teacup with shaking hands, not really noticing the way the china rattled against the saucer. His stomach clenched and rolled threateningly.

"I am so sorry, Fergus," Alfstanna reached forward and closed a warm hand over his forearm.

"Why?" his voice sounded strange to him. "Why would he…"

The young bann shook her head sadly. "He did many wretched things in his quest for power. He captured and tortured many innocent people. My brother was one of them."

"But…my entire family…"

"Not your entire family," Alfstanna replied. "Your brother Aedan yet lives. In fact, rumour has it that it was he that killed Howe. Your brother is a Grey Warden now. Did you know that?"

Fergus shook his head. He knew he ought to feel a measure of relief that his brother had survived the siege of Highever, but in truth he found it difficult to feel anything at all. He continued to stare at his cup of tea, willing it to lend him some of its warmth. He was so cold…

His tea…

"_I always heard that Antivan women were dangerous."_

"_With kindness and poison only, my husband."_

"_This from the woman who serves me my tea!"_

"Perhaps you should rest for a while, Fergus," Alfstanna was watching him with an increasingly worried expression. She rose and took the tea from his hands, then gently led him to one of her guest rooms in her Denerim town home.

For several days he drifted in and out of awareness. He took his meals in his room, though the food tasted like ashes on his tongue. To observers he appeared catatonic. He rarely spoke, and when he did, his responses were usually monosyllabic. He spent hours staring at his reflection in the looking glass, dissecting his face until it was naught but a series of shapes, indistinguishable to even his own eyes. He thought he might be losing himself.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

Her blade had sunk straight to the hilt. She twisted her wrist and his blood gushed from the gaping wound. She hugged him close, tears rolling down her cheeks. His hands closed over hers – the hand holding the dagger that spilled his life force. They stood that way for a time, cheek to cheek, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. It was difficult for him to speak, but he managed a garbled "Thank you".

She shook her head, a sob escaping her throat. She was unwilling to accept his fate. Throughout their travels, she'd always expected to find him alive and well. Never like this. His body began to sag against her, and she held him up just as he'd held her up so many times long ago. "I…love…"

"I know," he choked out. With the last of his strength he ran his fingertips over her cheek, tracing the lines of her tattoos.

She fell with him to the ground and pulled her blade away. She gazed down at him. His skin had turned mottled and grey. His beautiful hair, the colour of corn silk, had fallen out, leaving behind a bald pate. Her body wracked with sobs as the significance of her actions became clear. She was truly alone. While his fate had always been in question, she still had the hope…the possibility of finding him. Of rejoining their clan and becoming…

"It was merciful, what you did just now. He was too far gone," came a masculine voice over her shoulder. It barely registered. She was entirely focused on the corpse lying before her. Already the tainted flesh had begun to decay. A fresh set of tears threatened to spill as her gaze fell upon the necklace she'd given him so many years ago. The pendant was made from ironbark, and it had taken her months to bend it to her will. When she gave it to him, he'd been awestruck and had never taken it off. She cut the leather thong that kept the trinket in place and re-tied it around her neck. She wiped her cheeks and stood.

"Alistair? I need you to find me a shovel and an acorn…"

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

He sighed and flopped down on his bedroll. He'd managed another meal watching him play kissy face with Leliana without tossing his cookies. What his friend saw in the bard he'd never know. Sure she was pretty, and she had that air of mystery thing going for her, but other than that, she was kind of dull.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the blank canvas of his tent. He could hear the sounds of love making coming from Leliana's side of the camp. Every time he heard a masculine moan, his heart clenched. He should be the one bringing his beloved to such pleasurable heights. Sadly, the object of his affection had no interest in him in the least. He could only take comfort in the alone time they shared, and those moments alone happened quite frequently. Sometimes they would hunt for food, other times they'd take watch at the same time and stargaze. There were even times when they'd just lay in the grass and chat about nothing in particular, and somehow they always wound up wrestling playfully. Those were the moments he lived for. With that in mind, he fell into a deep sleep.

"Listen…we need to talk…Leliana has said that she's not really comfortable with the amount of time you and I spend together. So maybe we ought to, I don't know, spend more time apart, you know? I mean, I still consider you my best friend, but Leli seems to think that you're in love with me. Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it. So, do you think we could just…cool it for a while? I'm sure it's no real loss on your part, you probably have plenty of people to spend your time with."

Aedan's jaw clenched and he nodded. There wasn't much he could do, given the circumstances. If Alistair wanted to spend less time together…

His limbs suddenly felt heavy. He knew that things would never be the way he wanted them to be between them…but he lived for those moments alone together. Fergus would no doubt tell him that he always managed to fall for the ones who couldn't return the sentiment. First Roderic, then Dairren, and now Alistair. He wondered idly how much more unrequited love his heart could bear. He turned away from his fellow Warden, his attention now focused on the empty pleasure to be found at the hands of the Antivan elf. He needed to feel wanted, if only for a couple of hours.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

Babies? After all they'd been through he decided to give up on them because of babies? Her head was spinning and her heart was reeling. He was staring at her, waiting for a response. Some form of forgiveness, some understanding.

"Babies?" she repeated dumbly.

"You know that as king I'll be pressured to provide an heir, and since we're both Grey Wardens I don't think it's even possible for us to have one," Alistair replied.

She shook her head in an attempt to sort out his reasoning. None of it made any sense. Mere hours ago he'd held her in his arms and told her how much he loved her, how they'd face anything down. Her mouth was suddenly dry. She needed something to drink. When she next spoke, her tongue felt like it had been coated with a layer of film. "Did it mean nothing to you? Do _I _mean nothing to you?"

"Please don't make this harder than it already is."

Her body stiffened at his words. He was blaming her for making things difficult? Anger boiled in the pit of her stomach. Everyone was watching her, waiting for her reaction. She was sure some expected her to weep. Others would expect her to attack him. After all, she was rather mercurial by nature.

"Very well," she replied coolly. "Duty above all else. Let us plan for the battle against the archdemon."

She saw the uncertainty in his eyes. She heard the collective sigh of relief from her comrades. She felt her heart being torn from her chest.

He didn't even fight for her.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

Her daggers sliced through the guards like warm butter. She thought idly that the Bann ought to splurge for some better armour for his men. Soris loosed several arrows into a group of men about to descend upon her. She appreciated the back up, but she was fairly certain that she would have been successful without his aid. After seeing that one disgusting shem plunge his sword straight through her intended's chest, there was little that could stop her fighting frenzy. Her head felt ready to burst from the blood rushing through it. Her heart thudded against her chest at an alarming rate. Her knuckles were bone white from gripping her daggers so tightly. Sweat poured from her brow. Her lips were pulled back from her teeth in a feral grin. They tried to beat her down, but they would never win. She would have her revenge…she just needed to find Shianni.

She kicked through a pair of double doors that she was sure would lead to Vaughan's little party room. It took mere seconds for her to take in her surroundings, seconds for her grin to be swept off her face, seconds for her breathing to still. Her heart stopped. Vaughan's sneer mocked her from several feet away. Shianni lay weeping at his feet. Her simple dress was torn and bloodied. Bruises marred her delicate features. One of the guards grabbed Shianni's arm and hoisted her to her feet. She saw the blood trickling down her cousin's thighs. A lump formed in her throat. Her stomach roiled threateningly. She vaguely heard Vaughan proposing some sort of deal. She hardly listened, her gaze was frozen on Shianni's broken form.

"Cousin?" Soris asked tentatively.

She let loose an anguished cry and leapt forward, her daggers plunging into Vaughan's chest. It was an instant kill, but she spent quite a while tearing up his corpse. One of Vaughan's friends ran off, but the other stayed behind, and she smiled a lunatic smile. His eyes widened as she fell upon him. He tried to fight her off, but it was no use. Soris watched the display with rising terror. Never before had he seen his cousin in such a bloodthirsty state. When the battle was over, the walls were covered with blood. _She_ was covered in blood. It was in her hair, on her face, beneath her nails, soaked through her clothes.

She approached Shianni, who cowered in a corner. She placed a hand on her shoulder. Shianni flinched and glanced up at her. "Did you-did you kill them?"

"Like dogs, Shianni."

For a moment, Shianni's expression hardened. "Good…_good_."

Shianni looked hollow, and Tabris' heart wept. She'd been unable to get to her cousin in time. That Shianni had had to endure such depravity made Tabris want to scream and cry at the same time.

In her soul, she felt remorse. She wrapped her arms around her cousin and rocked her back and forth, whispering soothing words into her ear.

No matter how many of them she'd killed, she was still a failure.


	7. To Forgive

**Disclaimer:** Bioware and EA own Dragon Age. I own...hm, I'll have to get back to you on that.

**A/N: **Holy, finally able to update. O.O So, this story was at the request of Sharem. She invented Jenna and the theme. Anyone wishing to have a particular character pairing or theme need only PM me! ;D

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_Greetings my lovely Warden!_

_I felt that I had to write you when I heard this particular little tidbit of information. It would appear that a strange man is causing quite a stir in Kirkwall. He frequents the same tavern every night, and goes off on drunken tangents. Normally such information would be worthless to you, however here is where the story gets interesting: while he is known as the village drunk, he is also a bit of a hero since he has no qualms about fighting darkspawn. He claims that he used to do it for a living. Take what you will from this note, but I think we both know who this drunken wastrel is._

_Yours,_

_Zevran_

Jenna tucked the letter back into the pouch on her hip and tightened her hold on the pack on her back. Several people were staring at her as she walked through the city gates. She imagined that they either recognized her as the 'hero of Ferelden', or they looked upon her with disdain because she was an elf. Her hound nuzzled her side as a sign of reassurance.

"Thanks Fen. If it's him, I doubt he'll be overjoyed to see me," Jenna murmured.

She wandered over to a merchant selling his wares out of a small wagon.

"That armour's quite fancy for an elf," he baldly pointed out.

One corner of Jenna's mouth curled up into an acerbic grin. "I know a guy in Denerim. I had it custom made from Dragonbone. I think it pays proper homage to my clan's usual armour style."

The merchant grunted as a sign of approval. "So what's the Hero doing in a piddling place like this?"

She tossed a Sovereign his way. "I'm looking for a friend. Probably drunk most of the time, claims to be…"

"A Grey Warden?" the merchant finished for her.

"That would be him," Jenna replied.

The merchant pocketed the Sovereign and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "He's usually at the local pub, drowning his sorrows. You're actually one of his favourite things to harp about."

"That comes as no surprise…" Jenna grumbled. She thanked the merchant and headed toward the pub, but not before procuring a cloak to better conceal her identity. She hoped that if he was as intoxicated as the merchant had said, his ability to sense her would be significantly dampened. She pulled the cowl over her head and opened the door to Kirkwall's most popular drinking establishment.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

"I tol' you, I slew hun'reds of those buggers. Their blood was like a secon' skin ta me. An' what thanks do I get? Cast aside by that…that…backstabbing…" No one was paying attention to him, as usual. They never did. All they cared about was the bloody Hero of Ferelden. The one who cut his heart right out of his chest. He took another long pull of his drink when suddenly another ale filled mug sloshed in front of him. He glanced up at the bar wench, confusion filling his bleary eyes.

"Patron over there thought you might want a drink," she said by way of explanation.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder and saw the hooded figure leaning over his mug of ale. "Well, that was right nice of 'im."

The wench rolled her eyes. "He also offered to pay for a night here at the pub. Said you bein' a Grey Warden an' all, that you deserve it."

Alistair raised his mug to the hooded man. "Thanks, mate! Now I don' hafta sleep out on the cold ground tonight!" He let out a belch and started in on his tankard.

Several drinks later, Alistair was quite literally falling down drunk. The bar wench heaved a sigh, not relishing the thought of dragging the big lug to his temporary bed chambers.

"I'll do it," came a husky voice from over her shoulder. She turned and recognized the cloaked figure from earlier. From the man's build, the barmaid could only assume that he was an elf, and probably not much more able than she to haul the drunkard's arse upstairs.

"I dunno, luv. I mean, I'm sure you're a right strong man and all, but this bloke's pretty…" her words trailed off as the figure removed his…no, _her_ hood. "Blimey!" the barmaid whispered reverently. "Pardon my manners…I didn't know that you was…well, _you_."

Jenna shot the barmaid a half smile. "Don't worry about it. Here, I'm just a regular patron looking to lend a helping hand." She leaned down and wrapped the drunk's arm over her shoulders. She then bent at her knees and hooked her free arm beneath the man's thighs. Defying anything the barmaid had ever seen, the Hero was able to lift the large man up into her arms. With a bit of shifting, the bloke was hanging over one of her shoulders.

"Maker's breath!" the wench gasped. She rushed up the stairs ahead of Jenna and held the drunk's bedchambers open for her. Jenna nodded her thanks and unceremoniously dumped the big guy onto the bed. She was breathing heavily, but still managed a crooked smile for the barmaid.

"Thanks for the help, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone that I'm here," Jenna tossed a bag of silver to the wench, who caught it easily.

"I ain't ever saw ya," the wench replied.

Jenna's grin was genuine and she ducked into Alistair's room. She felt a tug at her heart in seeing what he'd let himself become. His hair was long and greasy, even knotted in some places. A patchy beard covered his face, and his skin, once kissed golden by the sun, had become sallow and splotchy. She stripped off his linen tunic, which was covered in old vomit stains. She decided it would probably be best to burn his clothes. He was in far worse shape than she'd anticipated, and she knew she'd need help if she were to help him to recover.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

"I need your help, Sister," Jenna said to the apparition in front of her.

The surly elf folded her arms over her chest. "Why should I help this worthless _shem_? He made the decision to waste his life-"

"Velanna, please, I'm begging you…" Jenna tugged nervously at her short braided hair. "This human was once my world. I can't just leave him like this…"

"Why not ask the other healer, the dirty one that can't keep his twig in his robes?" Velanna asked caustically.

Jenna sighed. "You know it would take too long for me to venture all the way back to Amaranthine, get him, and then come back here. At least with our ability to speak within dreams, it makes things significantly easier…"

"Another reason why we Dalish are far superior to flat ears and _shemlen_," Velanna snorted. "S_hems_ can only consciously speak to other _shems _in dreams, and even _then_ they have to be mages. _We_ can communicate regardless of our special abilities."

Jenna chuckled softly. "I thought you were starting to like humans. You've been running off saving their villages…"

"Oh alright," Velanna cut her off. "Here is a recipe for your helpless friend. The ingredients are not difficult to come by. Have him drink the potion and the poison will be out of his system. He will not suffer withdrawal from the drink he's been imbibing nightly." She handed Jenna a scrap of parchment.

Jenna looked over the directions, a frown etched upon her features. "Do I have to memorize it? Obviously I won't have this once I wake up."

Velanna smirked knowingly before a mist began to surround her. Within seconds she vanished.

When Jenna's eyes opened, she realized almost immediately that she was holding the same parchment that Velanna had given her. She smiled to herself briefly before hazarding a glance in Alistair's direction. She'd been worried that Alistair would have woken; it was difficult to gauge the passage of time in dreams. Luckily he continued to snore, and by the look of the darkness outside of his window, she had plenty of time to gather the ingredients necessary for his potion.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

Alistair groaned and covered his eyes from the morning light with his forearm. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry and had a horrible taste to it. How much had he had to drink last night? He'd lost count after fifteen. He sat up and a wave of dizziness assailed him. The pounding in his head intensified. He was just about to throw up on the floor beside him when he heard a knock at the door. "What?" he croaked out.

"Just the barmaid, luv, makin' sure to see to yer needs…that is to say not those kindsa needs, but…cor! Just be lettin' me in!"

Alistair grumbled under his breath and wrapped the sheet he'd been sleeping in around his hips. He wandered over to the door and held it open. He seemed to recall a woman resembling the one standing in front of him tending bar last night. He raised an eyebrow when her eyes widened as she gazed at his semi nude state. She swallowed nervously. "Is there something you wanted?" Alistair asked.

The barmaid shook herself. "Right. Drink this." She shoved a goblet toward his chest.

He snatched the goblet and eyed the contents. "What is it?"

"Nevermind what it is, it'll make ya feel right as rain, an' that's all that matters, aye?" the woman said with mock cheer.

"I suppose…" he replied. He shrugged a shoulder and tossed back the drink. Nothing like a bit of the hair of the dog to cure a hangover. _Only…_his lips smacked together and a shiver ran down his spine. He began to feel weak, and he held on to the door frame for support. "What did you give me?" he rasped.

The woman stared at him, wide-eyed. "Only what she told me to!"

"Who's she?" Alistair asked while stumbling back to his bed.

The reply came, though it sounded like the woman had spoken into a strong wind. He must have imagined it, because, Maker help him, he could have sworn he heard her say, "the Hero."

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

Alistair opened his eyes for the second time that morning, only this time he didn't suffer from any headaches or dizzy spells. In fact, he felt pretty damn good. For the first time in...he wasn't sure how long, he actually _smiled_. He leapt off the bed, ready to do the Remigold, but his underused muscles groaned in protest. Maybe a drink would get him…

_No, _a voice whispered in his head. _You hate the drink…it makes you sick…_

Alistair frowned. He was quite sure that he in fact _loved_ the drink, that it didn't make him feel sick at all. But that voice was so _insistent_!

He shook his head and came to the abrupt realization that he was nude. He saw a pile of ashes near his bed and hoped that he hadn't set his clothes on fire in a drunken rage. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw clean clothes folded neatly at the foot of his bed. He almost pulled them on when he caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass. He looked _horrible_! He was about to shout down to the barmaid for a bucket to clean himself with when there was yet another knock on the door. Brow furrowed, he headed toward the door and flung it open. The barmaid was on the other side, and she let loose a tiny squeak. Her eyes were glued to his…_Oh._ He dove for the bed and grabbed his sheet. He re-wrapped himself and went back to the door, clearing his throat embarrassingly. "Sorry about that."

"Not a problem!" she replied in a shrill sort of voice. "Now then, one o' th' other patrons thought you could use a good washin' and shavin'."

Alistair tilted his head to one side. "And who is this _patron_ and how does he know what I need?"

The barmaid chewed nervously at her lower lip. "Same one that bought ya the room fer the night." She placed a large bowl of hot water, a towel, a razor and a bar of soap on the floor in front of his door. "There ya go! Now I best be off, lots to do!" She spun on her heel and practically fled from Alistair. Alistair picked up the items and went back into his room. Based on what he saw in the mirror he had a lot of work to do.

He began by dipping the towel into the water and lathering up the soap. He scrubbed his face, his hair, and…well his entire body. Soon the water took on a murky hue. He took up the razor and began to carefully shave at the scraggly beard he'd developed. He even managed to keep from cutting himself. He glanced over at the clean clothes he'd been left. Now he'd be able to use them without dirtying them as soon as he'd put them on. He knew that he needed a haircut, but would have to make due with tying his hair back. As he pulled on his boots and laced them, he felt a familiar tingle at the base of his skull.

"Darkspawn…" he growled. He didn't think they were very far off either. He glanced over at his armour. It was a tad dusty since he hadn't gone slaying in ages, but he knew it would still fit in a pinch. After he'd buckled himself in, he strapped his sword and shield to his back. He was set to hunt some tainted monsters, and he felt better than ever.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

Her footsteps were silent as she hunted her prey. The woods near the village were teaming with life. She'd woken that morning with the knowledge that she'd have to face Alistair very soon. She needed time to think, and springing through the woods had quite a calming effect on her. She finally caught sight of the stag she'd been tracking. She knocked her arrow and pulled back on the bowstring. She had him in her sights. She let the arrow fly, and it struck true. The stag fell to the ground. She stood and was about to claim her kill when she heard a slow clapping coming from behind her. She stiffened. She couldn't believe she'd missed the tingling sensation…and she was flabbergasted that he'd been able to sneak up on her. She turned slowly, bow clutched tightly in her hand. He was leaning against a tree, one leg crossed over the other nonchalantly. He folded his arms over his broad chest. She could feel his gaze…his scrutiny. She felt like she was being dissected, weighted and found wanting. His lips were curled into a wicked sneer.

"The Hero deigns us with her presence," Alistair said sarcastically. "To what do I owe the honour? Or were you looking to slide another blade into my back?"

Jenna inhaled sharply. She supposed she deserved his bad treatment. But she had a few things of her own to get off of her chest, and the day of reckoning had arrived. "I did not stab you in the back. I saved you."

"Oh? And how does that work? You conscript our mortal enemy instead of killing him, and then he becomes a hero and I become a laughingstock?" He spat on the ground. "You always did have a way of destroying one person while trying to save the other. Got it backwards this time, I'm afraid."

Jenna clenched her jaw at the memory of Isolde sacrificing herself for her son. Alistair had claimed to have forgiven her of the choice she'd made. Evidently he hadn't. "You abandoned me," she hissed.

He advanced on her, eyes narrowed angrily. "What in the name of the Maker are you blathering about? It was _you_ who abandoned _me_."

Jenna stood her ground and stared up at him, her deep brown eyes unrelenting. "You left me to fight the archdemon _alone_. You said we'd always stay together. You lied."

Alistair growled and grabbed her shoulders, spinning her round and pinning her to the tree he'd been leaning against. "How _dare_ you? You spared Loghain. He murdered Duncan…doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does…that's why I did it," she struggled against him. "I fed that disgusting _shem_ to the archdemon. Don't you get it?" He continued to glare at her, his fingers biting into the flesh of her shoulders. "We are the Keepers of the lost lore-"

"Not this again..."

Jenna growled and shoved forward fruitlessly. "Shut up for once, you stupid blowhard! Garahel died killing the archdemon Andoral. Our ancestors investigated his death, as he was one of our own. That was when we discovered that in order to slay an archdemon, a Grey Warden must sacrifice his own life."

"What are you talking about? Duncan would have said something-"

"He probably died before he was able to say anything to us. My knowledge was confirmed after Loghain's joining. Riordan told us of the sacrifice. I knew of it beforehand, and I knew that Loghain had to be the one to-"

"I don't believe you!" Alistair ground out while pressing her firmly against the tree. The bark scraped against Jenna's exposed back. "How could you have know all of this before becoming a Warden? It doesn't make sense!"

"As I said," Jenna said through clenched teeth. "We are the Keepers of the lost lore. We guard our secrets just as well as the Wardens do."

"So that was your big plan, feed Loghain to the archdemon so he could make the sacrifice?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"Yes!" Jenna all but shouted.

"Why? Why not just kill him at the Landsmeet? Why bother with that huge charade? Riordan could have made the sacrifice," Alistair argued.

"He died in battle! He couldn't have killed the archdemon!"

"You had no way of knowing that!" he exclaimed. "It still doesn't explain you needing Loghain."

"Because if I hadn't conscripted Loghain, the only ones to do the deed would have been us! I couldn't take that risk!"

"Why not, Jenna? Why let Loghain have the glory?" Alistair asked heatedly.

"Because I didn't want you to die! Creators damn you, Alistair, I loved you and I couldn't watch you die!" Tears had sprung to Jenna's eyes. Her shoulders quaked beneath Alistair's iron grip.

Alistair stared down at Jenna. All of this time he'd wondered why she'd betrayed him, why she'd chosen to spare Loghain when she knew that he wanted the bastard dead. As her explanation sank in, he realized that her twisted logic actually made sense. If Loghain hadn't been in the battle, and if Riordan had fallen, Alistair knew without a doubt that he would never let Jenna sacrifice herself. He would have dealt the final blow.

Jenna sobbed softly. She gazed up at him, her eyes pleading. "Don't you see? I couldn't-"

Alistair released her, backing away slowly. "Why did you come here?"

"I came here to try and bring you back…"

"Back where?" he asked.

"To Amaranthine," she replied. "With the other Wardens. It's where you belong."

Alistair sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "If I decide to go…and that's a big _if_, then there's a lot you have to explain."

"Of course. Ask me anything," she replied.

"I can't have heard this right…but someone said that you'd recruited Rendon Howe's _son_?"

Jenna let loose a peal of laughter and tugged him toward the village.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

He stood over her and watched while she slept. His anger still warred with his compassion. He wasn't sure if he could forgive her so easily. She could have explained her actions before going off half cocked and assuming that he'd follow her command, no questions asked. There were limits to what he would do for…

He shook his head disdainfully. Who was he kidding? He would still rip the world in two just to please her. He should have known she had a reason to recruit Loghain, should have trusted her.

She curled onto her side, and one of her light blonde braids fell across her forehead. He'd almost forgotten how ethereal she looked bathed in the moonlight. He felt the familiar clenching of his insides, his arms ached to surround her, to fold her into his embrace.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed up at him sleepily. "Alistair?"

"I'm sorry I woke you," he whispered. "I just…couldn't sleep."

She scooted over on the mattress and patted the empty spot next to her. "Hop in, I know what it's like to not be able to sleep nights."

After a brief hesitation, Alistair slid in next to her. He lay on his back with his fingers laced behind his neck. He was acutely aware of Jenna's state of undress…she wore only her smalls. He let out a deep breath and tried to focus his attention elsewhere. Soon he heard her slow and steady breathing interspersed with the occasional soft snore. He looked up at the ceiling and began counting the cracks in the wood. He had reached one hundred and seventy-five (he prided himself on being able to count pretty high) when Jenna shifted. Alistair's entire body went still as her head nuzzled against his chest and her arm curled around his abdomen. She let loose a soft, happy murmur and continued to sleep. He slowly let himself relax and with as much finesse as he could muster, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Despite the fact that he was still as confused as ever, for the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt content.

**'*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*''*•.,.•*'**

Familiarity…after all this time things felt as they should. Jenna woke with a smile on her face, not really sure why she should feel so at peace and feel…

Something very large pressed against her inner thigh. _By the Creators, what happened? Oh mercy I must have rolled onto him in my sleep, and now he's just reacting the way he always did when it was first thing in the morning, and please let him still be sleeping, maybe I can just sneak out of bed without his noticing-_

She realized that Alistair had stopped breathing. A surefire sign that he'd woken up at the same time and knew exactly the situation they were in. Jenna cleared her throat, "I'll just move…" and very slowly slid her leg away. The movement caused Alistair to groan, a groan that she recognised, and one that always managed to make her burn for him. She wanted to kiss him very badly, to roll on top of him and show him how much she'd missed him. But too much time had passed, too many angry words spoken, so much unsaid…

"Jenna," his voice was low and coarse. "I'm not sure what's going on in your head, but I can tell you right now that my mind is filled with all sorts of images that I really shouldn't be thinking about, and as much as I'd really like to make those images a reality, I don't think it'd be a very good idea."

"I know," she replied softly. She pulled away from him, cheeks aflame. "We'd better start packing if we're going to head out for Amaranthine before nightfall."

"Right, now _that's _a good idea," Alistair conceded.

Jenna stood and stretched out her limbs. She had a sneaking suspicion that their journey back to the Keep was going to be an awkward one.


End file.
